


An Inkling, Called Into Being

by Maidenjedi



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26178412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maidenjedi/pseuds/Maidenjedi
Summary: Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister bear identical marks on their faces that set them apart in all the realms, and Fate changes everything.
Relationships: Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 56
Collections: Alternate Universe Exchange 2020





	An Inkling, Called Into Being

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hyx_Sydin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyx_Sydin/gifts).



> Total AU from the first moment.
> 
> Title suggested by the text of "Prophecy" by Dana Gioia. https://poets.org/poem/prophecy

The mark, they said, would lighten to a pale pink in true winter. For now, it shone strawberry-bright against Sansa’s otherwise creamy complexion, and when she blushed, it was a beacon.

When she was very young, there had been a maid who would try scrubbing at Sansa’s face with a rag soaked in buttermilk. She was found out and dismissed from the Stark household.

“Your mark is a treasure from the Seven,” said the septa back then. “You have been chosen, among all your family, for greatness.”

Septa Mordane was quieter on the subject, but still discouraged Sansa from despair over the mark on her face.

“But what if the prince sees? What if he objects?”

“Child,” sighed Septa Mordane as they stood before Sansa’s mirror, preparing her for the night to come. “You were made for one another. There can be no objection.”

-

“Where is Tyrion?”

“A brothel, most likely. I have not seen him since the day before yesterday.”

Jaime grimaced at his sister’s flippant tone.

“You’re sure?”

“Where else would the Lannister Imp find favor on the King’s Road? Especially now.”

For their brother, already a source of ridicule for his size and misshapen features, bore a mark now. A scar, went the tale, a reminder of night ill spent, at one King’s Landing whorehouse or another. 

“I’m going to go find him.” Jaime reached to knock at the carriage roof, to signal his desire to stop. His sister grabbed his arm.

Cersei looked up at him through hooded eyes, and guided his hand to her breast. “No. Stay with me.”

-

Robert knew he was being cuckolded. 

He also knew, they plotted.

He rode in a carriage ahead of the retinue, away from Cersei’s cutting gaze for once. He had hoped, on some level, that she might choose to stay in King’s Landing against his wishes. That she would fight back and demand that a Kingsguard stay with her, and contrive to have that Kingsguard be Jaime. Robert was no fool – he’d known, and he had said nothing, let it all be because it was Lannister coin in the realm’s coffers, Lannister guards at the gate, Lannister blood in his son’s veins. Jon Arryn had paid the price for Robert’s silence.

Robert would reveal all to his next Hand. He would make sure the secrets that both infected King’s Landing and held it up would be spelled out. If Cersei fell, so be it.

He sighed. Looking out the window, he could see they were nearer to Winterfell, the chill in the air suddenly foreboding. The sky had turned a marbled gray and white; not winter, not yet, just the North, always colder, the dormant season much closer to the surface with no King’s Landing sun to burn it away. Was it quieter here, too? So much quieter.

Robert realized he was being ambushed a split second before the arrow pierced his throat.

-

A rider, heralded by a watchman on the walls of Winterfell, dismounted so closely to Ned that sweat showered Ned’s face.

“My lord. The King,” panted the rider. “The King is dead.”

And so it began.

-

Tyrion Lannister was the last to learn that war was imminent.

The raven had squawked and cried out so forcefully to gain his attention that Tyrion lost his cockstand, and the whore kneeling at his feet laughed as she pushed him back and walked out of the room.

“Scared by a raven, little man? ‘Fraid it’ll peck it off, then?”

Tyrion frowned, stuffing his shirt in his trousers and going to the window. The scar – the mark – on his face glowed red, but that was hardly remarkable given his recent activity. He rubbed at his face, and grumbled at the bird.

“What do they want now?”

The raven didn’t peck, but it glowered, Tyrion was sure of that. He took the paper from the raven’s leg and it flew off so quickly that feathers were left in it’s wake.

The hand was Jaime’s. 

“To Winterfell. Come armed.”

-

_To Winterfell. Come armed._

-

Catelyn stood rigid before her husband, anger coursing through her as she realized what he was about to do.

“They killed him, Ned. As sure as I have birthed you sons, they killed him. The Lannisters did this, as they did for Jon Arryn.”

Catelyn held a scrolled paper in her hand as she said all this. It had arrived not an hour after the rider brought news of Robert’s demise, and Maester Luwin had wasted no time in putting it before the Lady of Winterfell. In Lysa’s hand, it spelled out how, exactly, Jon Arryn had died.

Ned’s right hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and with his left he took the paper from Catelyn. He grimaced and shook his head.

“She may be mistaken. She wasn’t at King’s Landing, she’s been at the Eyrie these last eight years. How would she know?”

“She would know. She’s his _wife_ , Ned.”

Wives know things.

Ned felt strongly that they could not go to war. Catelyn had been in Winterfell for Robert’s Rebellion; she had never seen the Lannister army, had never been to King’s Landing in the years since Robert became king. The Lannisters were all there was, everywhere, in every enterprise and bureaucratic office. Them, their allies, their toadies, their thralls. If Ned took the sword at his hip from it’s sheath now, he would return to Winterfell with it laid across his chest.

How to make her see, he didn’t know.

-

Tyrion arrived at Winterfell ahead of his brother and sister, as dusk began to settle around the country. He cursed as the wind picked up; he had dressed more warmly than many in the royal procession, knowing full well that while he had no experience with the North in summer, he could assume it less pleasant than southron regions. But this was no summer wind now, and it chilled him through despite the wool.

No, this was a wind of change.

He did not seek out anyone who could announce him to the Lord and Lady of the keep – he was certain the Starks were preparing for war, or at least a good fight, or Jaime wouldn’t have said to come armed. Instead Tyrion used his stature to his benefit and snuck past the guard. He would learn what he could and then go out to meet Jaime on the road. 

And that was how Tyrion Lannister, the Marked Imp, happened to be in the path of a distressed Sansa Stark, whose own mark glistened with tears.

-

Whatever had happened to the King, the small folk and servants had every possible version on their tongues, and as the story passed around it grew wings and fairly flew.

An arrow to the throat, courtesy of a corrupted Kingsguard, likely trained by the Kingslayer himself.

Several arrows to his person, as he feasted by the road. Courtesy of a corrupted Kingsguard, likely trained by the Kingslayer himself.

Not an arrow at all, but Valyrian steel, the sword that killed Aerys Targaryen now responsible for another king’s death, courtesy of the Kingslayer who wielded it then and now.

The common denominator had been Jaime Lannister, and every story pinned it on him in the end. There was no keeping it, or other foul rumors, from Sansa’s pretty ears, though Septa Mordane did frown at the girls gossiping with servants.

Arya was the one who gave voice to Sansa’s worst fear.

“So much for marrying the prince,” Arya smirked, and Septa Mordane ordered her from the room before she could say more.

Sansa questioned the septa, demanding to understand. Joffrey was still the prince, maybe even king now, wasn’t he? And the arrangement would stand, wouldn’t it?

Septa Mordane held out her hand to Sansa’s face. “It is possible, my child, but your fate may take a different course. It may yet be determined by other circumstances.”

Her thumb wiped away Sansa’s tears, but also brushed the mark, and Sansa ran.

-

Sansa stared gape-mouthed at Tyrion.

“Who are you?” she breathed. She had never seen such a small man, such an ugly man. If man was what he was. 

As the words hung in the air, she knew. This was the Imp, the youngest Lannister, laughingstock of all the realms. She knew him through whispers.

He, of course, knew who she must be as well. The pretty Stark maiden, intended for his idiot nephew, a joining of houses so great all seven kingdoms would be in awe. Of course, nothing could join Houses Baratheon and Stark now, any more than had been possible once Rhaegar ensnared Lyanna Stark and the Rebellion had begun. 

They stared at one another, measuring each other, the danger if either cried out just then. 

But if Tyrion had noted that Sansa’s beauty was as advertised, and if Sansa had determined that Tyrion’s repulsiveness had been exaggerated, neither could really see past the other’s mark as the moment lengthened.

“You…” Sansa said. “You have….”

Tyrion squinted, trying to unsee what he saw, to distort his vision so he could deny it altogether. “And you,” he finally said, low and unbelieving.

-

“The Prophecy of the Mark is legend, my lord. It has no basis in fact or reality. For while many may bear birthmarks or scars, there has never been proof of power or anything else in them.”

“But the prophecy suggests there will be two identical marks. And if joined, that is, if those who bear them marry, the kingdoms will unite. Finally, there will be a chance for peace.”

“It is a fairy tale, my lord, nothing more. Like White Walkers and lost Targaryen princesses, it is a myth.”

“Then my son bears this disfigurement for what reason, Septon? Explain it.”

“My Lord Lannister, it is a punishment.”

For the sins of Tywin and Joanna, for Tyrion’s own misdeeds? For all of House Lannister’s crimes?

It mattered not, for Tywin would no longer acknowledge his second son.

It would be a punishment.

Tyrion heard every word, and crept back to bed, his last night at Casterly Rock a bitter one.

-

“I was told there was no other, that it wasn’t possible,” said Tyrion, coming closer to Sansa.

She did not move. She was remembering something, remembering a day beneath the heart tree with a septa who told a crying girl that the mark identified her as a great lady. That there would be peace in the realms, and it was the mark that proved it had all been true. Sansa scoffed and waved the woman off, her young heart set on she’d overheard her parents discussing, her betrothal to Joffrey. Sansa was young and romantic, her ambition as yet undefined beyond great love. She believed herself in love with a prince she’d never met, because the storybooks promised this. Great beauty would marry great power, and therein lay Sansa’s destiny. However her mother and Septa Mordane might try to tamper belief in that, Sansa’s dedication to it grew.

As Tyrion Lannister came closer to her, now so close she had to look down to see his face, her hold on castles and silks and courtly love dissolved. But there was a war beginning, was there not? Hadn’t she fled her rooms for solace, to find some reason to believe she could still have all she’d dreamed of?

It was standing before her, she knew, and how she knew she could not say. She hardly knew what she was about, but she sought a place to sit, and held her hands clasped in her lap.

“The prophecy,” she said. “I didn’t believe.”

Tyrion nodded, his mind swirling. “Neither did I. Not really,” he replied.

“Is it real? Your mark?”

“Yes. Is yours?” His bit out his reply.

“I would not contrive such a thing for beauty’s sake,” she mumbled, ashamed she had asked.

“Nor I. Though perhaps beauty is your expertise rather than mine.”

“How did you come to be here? Have you not heard?”

“I was summoned.”

“Summoned? Surely my father…”

“Oh, my dear, no. No, I believe it was my brother who sent for me. Seems there is a situation requiring all hands at the ready.”

“King Robert.”

“Dead, yes.”

Sansa pushed down the grief she felt at that. The king was dead, and who would sit on the throne now but his own son, who wouldn’t want a marked girl he didn’t need.

“Was it your brother, as they say?”

Tyrion had his own mixed emotions to push down, and he was less successful in letting them show on his face. Sansa marveled at his blush, having so many times seen the same effect on her own face.

“It may have been. I was not there. But I don’t believe my brother would have done for the king.” His sister, maybe, had she any savvy with weapons.

“They all think so,” Sansa said, waving her hand.

“I have no doubt they do.”

They fell silent. Whatever magic drew them both to this spot, and let them be with no interruptions in a keep alive with preparation and anticipation, did not stretch to natural conversation between a man grown and a girl in the flush of youth.

“They will look for me,” she said, anxious suddenly that she should not be found with a Lannister, however marked he may be. “I must…I do not know what to do.”

She did not implore with that remark, and Tyrion was grateful, as he had no more idea what came next than she.

“I must go. My brother will look for me as well.”

“Do you think....?”

“I do. But when, I could not say.”

-

If war had sparked that day, as so many anticipated and polished their swords for, the story may have ended there. Tyrion Lannister, drunken and whoring his way through a camp or two, and Sansa Stark, locked in a tower in one keep or another, might have crossed paths too far down the road in time for even Fate to have her way. 

But the Seven were merciful. Ned Stark, never bloodthirsty and keen to put down his sword, sought terms. Cersei Lannister, vengeful and full of the spite that comes of disappointment, was killed in a fall that was never fully explained. Jaime Lannister quit the field, to his father’s everlasting disgust. Joffrey Baratheon was impaled by a boar on a hunt. And the kingdoms quivered for a moment, wondering if the story of a Lost Targaryen Princess could possibly be true, wondering who could be the rightful heir to the throne with Joffrey dead and Robert’s claim false all along.

-

Sansa’s arrival in King’s Landing was as a bargaining chip. She knew it, even if her father would hardly admit it.

Leaders from most of the principle Houses had agreed to a summit. With Robert, Cersei, and Joffrey dead, no Hand surviving, and so much chaos developing, who should rule? And how?

Catelyn had been the one to propose the marriage, surprising everyone. There were few with Sansa’s pedigree, a child of House Stark and House Tully, her lineage unquestioned. The Tyrells would complain but when Sansa was presented, no powder concealing her mark, even they collectively gasped.

“So it’s true,” said Olenna Tyrell, voice ringing out in the Throne Room.

“The Prophecy of the Mark requires two, my lady,” replied Varys, the Spider, his sentiment echoed by Petyr Baelish and others. 

“It does at that,” she replied, “but it doesn’t require both for us to concede the possibility.”

“And it isn’t possible,” spat Stannis Baratheon. “It was and is a myth, like all magic. The girl’s being her is pointless, Stark, and I ask that she be removed.”

Tywin Lannister, face as inscrutable as ever, started at Sansa. He was inclined, however painfully, to agree with Stannis, except that Renly’s words rang in his ears as familiar as the first time he’d heard the prophecy. Two with a mark, The Mark, would reign and bring peace to the kingdoms not seen in millenia.

He waited and watched. The assembled group quarreled and railed; claims so obscure they predated knowledge, claims so outlandish they defied sense. There was no lineage that could truly lay claim to the throne; even the Targaryens, gone so long their corpses no longer rotted, had been usurpers. These were Seven Kingdoms, not one. Who had any right to claim the Iron Throne at all, when its existence denied the sovereignty of all save one?

Negotiations went on for days, into weeks. Marriage contracts were drawn up, then burned. Maps were brought out, crumbling and useless. Ravens were sent to the Citadel, and returned with the same response, over and over.

_“The Prophecy of the Mark will be fulfilled.”_

Even the sensible, rigid, unbelieving Tywin Lannister could admit when he was wrong, after all.

-

Tyrion was summoned once again. This time, the raven was silent, and Tyrion was found dressed and pacing a room, whores forgotten in the time that he’d had to dwell on what Sansa’s face might mean for him.

-

A marriage of true minds, they said.

Sansa, now Lannister, now Queen and First of Her Name, stood on a balcony overlooking the bay. Tyrion, now King and First of His Name, stood to her side, cup of wine in his hand and look of trepidation on his brow.

“Does it please you? To stare and wonder?”

Tyrion heard the sarcastic rancor that colored Sansa’s voice, but knew it came from confusion and sadness, not hate. He took his time in responding.

“It does. It pleases me to look on you.”

“Because I am pretty.”

“Yes.”

“Because I bear the mark.” She hid her face in her hands.

“You forget, so do I.” He drank from his cup. “You bear it and retain your grace. It compliments you. Whereas mine…let us say I stare in wonder and envy.”

His tone did not shift, not to the casual ear, but Sansa heard more, knew there was something he had not revealed about what had led him here. 

She came over to him and took his hand.

“Let them all stare, then, at us both, in wonder and envy. For we are queen and king now, and the world is changing.”

Tyrion squeezed her hand. “Exactly.”

-

It was far from peaceful. The day of the wedding, ships of the Iron Fleet arrived in Blackwater Bay, and had to be driven out. There was an attempted revolt the week before led by Roose Bolton’s bastard, put down swiftly enough by Stark allies in the north. Even after the marriage and the coronation there were rumors of rebellion, and actual plots in the Red Keep, such as that of Petyr Baelish to woo the new queen for his own.

It took time, as peace does. 

Love took longer, but when it came, it was sweeter than all they had accomplished.


End file.
